Cities of the Future
by Devilish Kurumi
Summary: A story about love and hate in a world ruled by Decepticons. AU, no RotF. Character Death, Serious Themes, No Happy Endings. Please read Author's Note.
1. 715 Days

**Author's Note:** This fic is not for the light hearted few who wish to see happiness. Serious themes here include violence, adult themes, coarse language, and character death. The characters will not all survive. Most of the survivors will not survive completely.** People will die, people _are _dead, and there is no returning from the grave.** War is a harsh thing, and defeat at the hands of sadists is even worse. (Please note: unless otherwise stated, the Decepticons and Autobots speak to each other in Cybertronian. Decepticons will rarely, use English to communicate - even with humans.)

**Disclaimer:** All characters are 18+ and are fictional. **Please do not continue if you cannot handle female sexuality, death, semi-graphic depictions of violence, and sexual abuse/harassment. **Transformers is (c) Hasbro.

* * *

Cities of the Future  
Chapter I

_"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."_  
-Shakespeare

* * *

Maggie knows who she is. She knows her name, her (dead) phone number, her (old) address, and even her (obsolete) social security number. 

But lying here on the cool, impartial metal flooring of Lord Megatron's grand castle, she wonders if that even matters anymore. Phones do not work. Her home has long since turned to dust. Social security does nothing, when there is no government to uphold it. And her name...

Her name means nothing to this crowd.

She knows, sliding hands seductively over her flat belly to ripped up, indecently short shorts, that organics are not pleasant things for her audience. They do not appreciate hair or skin or sinew – they prefer cold steel and gears and computers. No, she knows that sliding her hands all over herself does nothing for them – not like it would to another human. She takes great pains to stay quiet and meek and simple-minded, because that is what they want; she spreads her legs and works her shorts and leggings down her thighs because that is what they want; she blushes furiously even as she openly pleasures herself in front of them because that is what they want.

It isn't the organic masturbation that gets the Decepticons off; it's the humiliation she suffers through each and every time she does it in front of them. They _love_ to watch others be tortured, mentally or physically. In the end, this is just a show – the _real_ anguish starts later, when one of them carries her exhausted body back to her "room" and toys with her in private. Her lips even have tiny scars, one or two stretching beyond pink flesh, from Barricade's razor sharp fingers – which can be highly sensitive, as she's found.

She listens to catcalls and deeply vocalized chuckling, feeling red optics glued to every arch of her hips and every hot tear that manages to blink out of her eyes. Lord Megatron is reigning over this particular show, lounging before her with optics promising something sinful and wretched, if he were to get her alone. Thankfully, he always offers her first to his most loyal subjects – and now Maggie wonders when she became thankful that she is offered to the likes of Blackout and Barricade.

She is even more exhausted than normal tonight – she had stayed up late, "entertaining" Barricade – and when she lies slumped on the floor, breasts heaving and body numb from the cool floor and burning heat in her stomach, she hears Lord Megatron's deep voice call out.

They speak in clicks and whirrs, electronic noises she could never hope to translate, but she does know what he's asking. She's known ever since she first heard the phrase. Roughly translated, she assumes it means, "Who shall play with the toy tonight?"

Mingled fear and relief sweep through her as she hears deep, harsh growls respond to Lord Megatron's question. Bonecrusher is only ideal because he requires no energy from her – he simply tosses her around a little, preferring bruising to making her reach in sharp crevasses and bring him to what they termed "overload" once for her.

The Deception's massive hand scoops her up at Megatron's amused affirmative, and she lets herself be dangled like Ann Darrow in King Kong's fist. The ground is so far below that even shifting to relieve the pain of sharp metal on her back is a bad idea – Bonecrusher can easily drop her if she annoys him.

The walk back to her "room" is long and silent, with only small mutters escaping the giant Decepticon. Maggie allows herself to be completely at his mercy – there isn't much else for her to do.

The door is massive and her "room" is almost large enough to fit even Lord Megatron, but she hesitates to give it such a personal term. This isn't a room made for her – it is a cell that the Decepticons have slowly adjusted for her and, in turn, them. There is a shower and a drain that dumps used water and biological waste into what was once the Atlantic Ocean, with no curtain or tile – just cold metal and a bar to cling to in order to prevent slipping. Her "bed" is little more than a block of metal – the bottom half of a smaller-sized stasis berth – layered with thick blankets that have been stolen from wrecked homes and dead families. The only whole ones are the top two – one serving as a sheet, and the other serving its designated purpose. There are plenty of pillows – all from the same homes as the blankets – but none of them are there for her, really. It is all a show.

The entire room, right down to dimly-lit electric lights and the inconspicuous laptop charging in the corner – everything is just there to make her look more appealing. An organic outside of organic culture looks awkward and alone; put them in their own habitat and soon you start to notice their subtleties.

So says Starscream.

Bonecrusher kneels down, thick knees on either side of the berth, and drops her onto the soft blankets. She stretches even as she lands, back arching and head tilted to gaze at the huge Decepticon above her. He watches her back, silent and calculating but so unlike his smaller companions, who will never hesitate to let her know exactly what she has to do. He rarely even talks around her – and _never_ in English.

It therefore comes as a complete surprise when his voice processor grinds out something harsh and gravelly and yet understandable.

"Humiliated? Yes, no."

Maggie stares at Bonecrusher, biting her lip too harshly, and then sighs, nodding her head a little. "Yes."

"Good."

One gigantic hand comes down towards her and she flinches reflexively, before realizing that his long finger is only hovering over her.

"Barricade gave organic scars. Yes, no."

"...Yes."

He grunts in what she thinks might be annoyance, and then states, "Organic is good for Decepticon morale. Lord Megatron is pleased. Organic has spent time with Lord Megatron. Yes, no."

"No!"

Her voice cracks and she forces back her fear, lounging on the blankets and pillows of dead families. Bonecrusher contemplates her, finger tapping against her collarbone lightly, barely even registering.

"Organic does not wish to be Lord Megatron's personal pet. Prefers multiple owners. Yes, no."

"I – no. Yes. I don't know!" Maggie exclaims, biting her lip again. "I don't – I don't want to be here."

"Organic has no choice. Question repeats."

"...I don't want to ever be this close to Lord Megatron."

Silence.

"...How – easily organic calls him Lord. Been here long enough. Organic prefers Barricade to Bonecrusher. Yes, no."

Maggie frowns and stares around the room for a long moment. "...The choice you've given me is between sexual or physical torture."

"...Which do – you prefer?"

The pronoun surprises Maggie even more than the fact that he's speaking English, and she turns to stare at him again.

"...Does it matter? I don't have a choice."

"I am giving you a choice."

She can't even begin to answer him honestly, but given the choice at gunpoint, this very moment...

"...You."

Bonecrusher's body hums a little and he sits back, crouching at the foot of her berth like a persistent shadow.

"Sleep, organic. Long days ahead."

She nods her head and shifts under thick blankets, curling up and staring at the still form over her.

"Are you staying?"

"For the moment. Company is you or Starscream." Bonecrusher doesn't make a face, but the dislike is evident in his tone. She wonders if any of the Decepticons like Lord Megatron's second in command.

That is how Maggie's 715th day under the Decepticons ends – her, huddled in a dead man's blanket, with the looming shadows of Bonecrusher hanging over her head.

* * *

Her dreams have become utterly devastating. 

Ironhide rocks on battered hydraulics and attempts to sooth the quietly crying Annabelle without waking her mother, sleeping in his backseat. Both of his girls wake up screaming most of the time; Sarah manages to reign it in quickly enough but Annabelle is too young to realize that noise that loud and human is just as dangerous as her dreams.

His tires, tread worn and air seeping out slowly with every long drive, complain against the pavement but he's long since shut down his sensors. Feeling is for peacetime, and he's not sure if that will ever come. Ratchet has tried to reassure him occasionally, but the old medic is starting to run out of optimism.

Annabelle's cries slowly soften into sniffles and Ironhide settles back down, spreading scanners out to their limit to make sure her shrieking hasn't drawn any unwanted attention. It wouldn't do for him to attract Decepticons – not with Sarah and the child with him.

It's only moments later when Sarah herself jerks awake, crying out, "_Will!_" before falling silent and checking the immediate surroundings for any movement.

"I told you not to let me fall asleep, Ironhide."

The old Autobot's sensors pick up something in the distance, but it's a friendly signal so he relaxes. Probably his replacement for duty, so that he might get a few cycles in a stasis berth.

"You cannot go long without sleep, Sarah," Ironhide says after a moment, "Humans can only go approximately seventy-two hours before they start to hallucinate, and we need you as alert as the rest of us."

"Hardly alert when I'm snoring in your backseat," the woman grumbles, sitting up and leaning forward to pick Annabelle out of the front seat. "Did she wake up much earlier?"

"Hardly even klick. Looks like our replacement's showing up – you can get more than a few breems soon."

"...Was I really only asleep for that long? It feels like ages."

Ironhide doesn't respond, because he knows why her sleep seems so much longer to her than it really is. Nightmares can drag out even the shortest sleep cycles – or so he's been told. He suspects that when all you see behind your eyelids is your home and life be blown up in one glorious orange blast, your sleep can last forever.

Static interlaced with deep bass and guitars echoes in Ironhide's audio receptors and he sighs, shifting on his tires in annoyance. "Slag it, I _continuously_ tell him not to broadcast his whereabouts and he never listens!"

"I don't think he cares, Ironhide," Sarah says quietly, rocking Annabelle gently into sleep. "He doesn't _have to_ anymore."

"Of course he does – perimeter guard is the most important duty and-"

Dust flies as tires skid across the desert, clearing only when the rumble of the other's engine subsides into a dull hum. The dingy yellow paint, chipped and scraped in many places, is the only thing that Ironhide can use to determine that the newcomer is, indeed, Bumblebee.

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry, Ironhide," Sam says as he climbs out of the Autobot, who shifts and clanks into his equally chipped, dinged, and bent bipedal form. "My fault. The foot was acting up again; Ratch had to double-check Wheeljack's calculations. We're here now, though."

Sarah pushes Ironhide's passenger door open and he allows her to get out, cradling her child in one hand as she goes to embrace the other standing before her. "Only the foot?" she asks in concern, looking the boy over, "Why is it always the foot? You would think an arm would be harder to connect."

"I don't know, but I hate doing jigs." Silver glints as Sam raises his left arm to brush dust out of his hair, "Either way, Wheeljack just forgot to connect something after the last repair. It should be fine now."

"I should do something about his sloppy performance lately," Ironhide grumbles, earning a laugh from the boy.

"Aw, come on, 'Hide, he's got bigger things to worry about than a kid's cybernetic foot. I can always hobble around on the one organic one – Jazz is a little more in need of repairs."

Ironhide thinks of the improbability – _impossibility_ – that Prime's second-in-command will ever function again, but shoves aside his pessimism. "Sarah, let's leave them to their job. You need at least a few cycles to rest before we can do anything productive."

The woman sighs but responds only by climbing back into the front seat; her temperature is slightly raised and so Ironhide adjusts his beaten up air conditioner, taking off towards the only entrance to Autobot headquarters.

_Headquarters,_ Ironhide thinks to himself, feeling the ever-present pessimism swoop in, _Hardly even enough space for the few of us there **are**_.

"Ironhide..."

He wonders if he's spoken aloud, and responds cautiously with, "What is it?"

"...I'm starting to forget."

He should have seen this coming. Still, he has to force himself not to decelerate or accelerate, keeping his pace steady and voice level. "Forget...?"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Sarah's foot taps nervously against his floor and her voice takes on an edge he hasn't heard in almost two years. "I can't remember what he sounded like... If he smoked. I can't remember what the last thing he said to me was – _really_ said, not just shouting and screaming. _Jesus,_ Ironhide, I can't even remember what color his eyes were!"

He refrains from speaking at first, choosing to monitor her increased blood pressure and heart rate instead. Then, he says slowly, "It is to be expected."

"I remember _Optimus Prime_ more clearly than my own goddamned _husband_, Ironhide! And I spent only a few _days_ with him!"

He can't hold back the sudden deceleration that comes with the memories floating in his processors. _Primus,_ he thinks, forcing himself back to speed, _I cannot miss him that much._

"Humans have sensitive and limited memory. You will forget these things. If this war goes on long enough, you will forget Optimus. If you were to die tomorrow, Annabelle would not remember your face in a year's time. It is simply how things are."

If this were two years ago, Sarah Lennox would have yelled at him. At the very least, she would have told him to stop being so blatant – humans do not appreciate grim statements and examples. Now, she simply sighs and leans back in the seat, cradling her daughter to her chest and humming in mild aggravation. She's learned that the Autobots will never lower their standards for the humans that live among them; the humans must simply rise to Autobot principles.

"You will eventually forget everything about that day," Ironhide adds quietly. "I am sorry, but-"

"Not everything." Sarah's voice is cold and hard and so unlike the woman he's grown attached to; she sounds like a warrior – like someone with nothing to lose. "I'll _never_ forget who took him away from me."

He wonders if she blames Ratchet still, even though years have passed since the Autobot medic had failed to save her husband. It hadn't been possible at the time; Ratchet had not studied humans nearly enough to save them from so much damage. Sam had been attacked nearly a year later, after allowing himself to be studied by the medic – that is the only reason he was as well off as he is now.

"Ratchet did all he could at the-"

"It isn't Ratchet's fault," she mutters darkly. "I'll kill Blackout _myself._"

Ironhide should feel relief from her statement, but for some reason it just makes him more worried over his adopted human companion. She doesn't have the capabilities to take out the vicious Decepticon – he doesn't even know if he himself does.

They reach the small opening for the underground base – barely even big enough to go through, with a low clearance and absolutely no chance of backing out. His side-view mirrors nearly scrape against the metal interior, but his weight and signal trigger the elevator nonetheless.

They drop down through miles of bedrock, the slow droning of the lift the only noise, barely even drowning out the silence. It is in that silence that he hears Sarah let out a sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hears her hum some old Earth lullaby to her daughter.

The lift opens into the main bay and Ironhide immediately takes off for Sarah's room, dodging around the few humans who have stood up to Decepticon attacks and lived to tell about it. His scanners catch Ratchet out of the medbay but there's nothing Ironhide needs from him – nothing desperate, at least – so he continues down the hall, stopping only once he comes to one of the bunker rooms for the humans living in the Cybertronian base.

"Get some sleep, Sarah. You will feel better in the morning."

"Ironhide..."

The woman cuts herself off and climbs out of his cab, cradling the young child to her chest and looking over the dusty, scratched, scraped and dented metal; Ironhide forces himself not to shift uncomfortably, even as her eyes seem to pierce his armor better than Ratchet's sensors ever could.

"...Thank you, 'Hide," she finally sighs, leaning her forehead briefly against his frame. "Let me know when something comes up."

"I will," he responds, even though they both know he would rather die than interrupt her sleep, and she leaves him to idle in the hallway, wondering where to go next. He doesn't like that his purpose has been reduced to such a narrow field, but he has no choice.

Private communication lines flare to life as Ratchet calls out for him, and so he reverses and begins the short trek back to where he last saw the medic.

"What is it, Ratchet?"

Old and worn metal creaks as it shifts and Ironhide rises to his feet, looking across the bay at his friend. Ratchet looks up from his kneeling position, talking with a man who needs a new leg for his son – _They're so fragile. Why do they fight in a war that they cannot win?_

"...Ironhide, did you hear me?"

"Sorry. Repeat."

Ratchet stands now, face breaking out into the Cybertronian equivalent of a grin, and he says, "Jazz is awake."

* * *

Megatron stands in the dark pit – one of many dark pits, none of them particularly different from the other – and finds himself laughing. A full blown, deep laugh that rattles every gear and surely must knock something loose inside his processors; a laugh that he's not had in eons, if ever. 

He walks through the pit, layers of scrap decorated with Autobot insignias and the bones of hundreds of thousands of humans only impeding his movement slightly. He's laughing even as he kicks the head of some Primus-forsaken Autobot to the side, remembering how so long ago that Autobot had sworn never to betray his side. _They do not need to betray... They simply need to give up._

He finally reaches the farthest edge of the pit and finds himself kneeling down to better view his guest, who is half-functioning, almost permanently locked down, reduced to bare processors and raw data intake.

"Oh, _Optimus._"

Megatron's guest makes a noise – more like gears grinding together than anything – and almost shifts.

"You think I will take my time with you?" he asks, face contorting into a horrible smile, "You think I will make this easier for you than my dear comrades?"

He finds himself running claws down metal scraped nearly clean of red and blue paint, red optics following their path.

"You call for me over broken lines and do you realize what that means?"

He laughs again at the slight shifting his guest manages, one long claw finding the beaten and half-destroyed spark casing almost hanging from the other's chassis.

"Why, when you call me down here so late in the evening, you leave the loyal little human pet in the hands of those who would rather be touching _you._ I cannot say I am not surprised she has not yet died."

A murmur, _almost _like speech.

"Ah... Bonecrusher was most eager to take her. I suppose that should be expected – you _did_ cut his playtime short."

Fans click.

"But... I cannot say I do not enjoy this."

Even after two years at the hands of the Decepticons, his spark still pulses as strongly as the day it was cut. It taunts Megatron more than words will ever say. Maybe Optimus even knows this – maybe that is why he hasn't yet given up everything, as his comrades once did. Maybe that is why, even surrounded by the remains of close friends and an infant race, his optics still glow with a sad kind of hatred and he manages to hiss, "You... will never kill me."

Megatron snarls in rage, but even while he rakes his claws against Optimus' spark, drawing screams of agony from his enemy, he cannot help but think that nobody knows him better than his dear old friend.


	2. Planetfall

Author's Note: Please forgive any grammatical issues you might find when reading parts with speech in commline quotes (double-colons - : ) - editing system removed most of the commas directly preceding these quotes. I've edited as best I can. Also, it seems that double-colons aren't allowed, so instead single colons (:) instead of quotes ("") will equal commline talk.

* * *

Cities of the Future  
Chapter II

_"Ask yourself, then, what is mercy?"_  
-Unknown

* * *

Maggie hadn't realized it at first, but now she sees it. Bonecrusher is spending more time with her than normal.

The only Decepticon she sees during the daylight hours is generally Starscream, who likes to sit and watch her as she showers, grooms herself, and works on her laptop. The laptop, on the other hand, is the only non-Decepticon other than her around inside the fortress. It had been accidentally given sentience during the reclamation of the Allspark by Lord Megatron, and as it only has basic processes and can only take raw data input, Lord Megatron had seen it fitting that it be given to their newfound pet as a... gift. Its name is Laptop, unfortunately enough – the Decepticons call it something else in their language, but Maggie's not one for naming anything. She never even named her teddy bears when she was little.

In either case, Laptop and Starscream were usually the only company she had during the morning and afternoon, with the occasional and horrible visits from Blackout and his pet, or Barricade. Barricade never brings Frenzy along like Blackout does Scorponok, but Maggie never complains for small miracles. Frenzy, after all, is the reason why she's here.

But now, instead of her torturers or her observer, she finds herself writing her thoughts into Laptop with Bonecrusher leaning in the corner, almost mocking a human's posture. She's written_ James Dean_ three times already because of it.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Maggie looks over at the silent Decepticon and asks flatly, "Why are you here?"

Bonecrusher is silent for a long moment, and though his face doesn't show it she can see that he's annoyed by her question, shoulders shifting and wheels crunching a little against the ground as he moves a foot.

"...Organic is more interesting than the current goings-on. One place to think without interruption."

_Until now,_ Maggie winces, looking quickly back to Laptop and pushing hair out of her face. _Ignore him, _she types,_ Ignore the boogeyman and he goes away._

Laptop makes a small noise and then she hears the thud of a thick, wheeled foot; she jerks her head up and stares at the suddenly too-close-too-close Bonecrusher, kneeling at the berth and looking at her with narrowed optics.

"Do that again."

"D-Do... do what again?"

The smell of exhaust fills the room for a moment as Bonecrusher heaves the Cybertronian version of a sigh, and he reaches out a long and pointed claw, barely tapping the side of her head.

"That."

She shakes her head a little in confusion, but as hair falls into her eyes realization dawns, and she cautiously pushes her hair back behind her ear again. Bonecrusher makes a slight, confused noise and then moves back once more.

She doesn't ask why he wanted her to mess with her hair, because the Decepticons are strange and have the weirdest kinks in the world. She supposes they're probably normal for Cybertronians, but still...

Laptop shudders suddenly and Maggie looks at Bonecrusher, who seems to be – distracted. _Talking to Laptop,_ she realizes,_**teasing**_ _him?_

"What are you doing to Laptop?" she asks, feeling her voice become vaguely hostile in tone. Bonecrusher fixes his optics to her and then makes another noise.

"The inorganic organic is downloading things it should not be." The Decepticon stands suddenly and snaps something in Cybertronian to Laptop, who shudders in Maggie's hands.

"Stop scaring him!" she exclaims, running a hand over his keyboard gently. "What are you doing?"

"It is _downloading things._ That should not be possible. I am asking how, why."

"He doesn't even _know_ Cybertronian," she sighs, looking at the computer shivering in her hands. "Laptop, what are you doing?"

"...the, the, the. Plans. Some, some, someone, plans."

She frowns and asks, "Can you show Bonecrusher what you're downloading?"

"I, I, I... Video. Vid, vid, video feed, hole num, num, number two-twenty-seven, seven."

Bonecrusher grunts and looks to be doing his own downloading, optics flickering in concentration for a heartbeat before coming back into complete focus, fixing on the two on the bed.

Audio plays from near the massive Decepticon but Maggie can't understand it, as it's in Cybertronian – she does, however, note Starscream's voice, mingled with another that sounds _so familiar._

"Delete that, slagger," he growls, and Laptop makes a terrified squeaking noise.

"What was it?"

Silence answers Maggie's question, but she can't bring herself to look away from the Decepticon. Some dead part of her twitches as she considers all of the things Laptop can actually _do,_ all of the things he can _see_ – what dirt could she dig up? Would it save her from nights with Barricade or Blackout? Could she –

"...These are troubled times, organic. Do not question your masters."

The room's door slides open with a determined hiss, and Maggie cringes as Barricade comes through, as self-assured as someone coming home. He stops when he sees Bonecrusher in the corner of the room, optics narrowing suddenly in aggravation, and he hisses something in Cybertronian.

Bonecrusher responds in deep, guttural tones, rising to wheeled feet and stomping out in obvious annoyance. Laptop transforms quickly and skitters away on six low legs, hiding in the furthest corner possible and sliding into an attempt at recharge.

And, even as Barricade advances, nothing but malicious intent written on his very coding, Maggie finds herself wishing Bonecrusher had stayed.

* * *

Mikaela checks her watch and sighs in aggravation. _Still got at least twenty minutes before we regroup. Shit._

"Shit," she repeats aloud, long legs sliding over the chassis of an old beat up Yamaha, turning the key in the ignition and feeling the engine flare to life with a little sputter and a roar. She doesn't like using non-sentient vehicles on recon but honestly, there just aren't enough Autobots to go around anymore.

Jazz had asked – once she and Sam and the others had properly freaked out over his reanimation – that they go scout the nearest city for scrap (as usual) and living humans (not-so-usual), as well as sentient machines (definitely not normal). Ironhide had readily agreed, but Ratchet had called him back. Sam and Bumblebee, however, took over his duty easily. Mikaela had taken her time deciding – she much prefers working with Wheeljack and Ratchet on cybernetic limbs and the like, but in the end, her ache for some excitement won out.

Of course, now she's cruising an empty, ruined street, looking through windows idly, bored out of her mind. _Never should have left. Could have helped Wheeljack with the foot issue._ She doesn't know why he can't get their feet working as well as the rest of his enhancements, but it probably has to do with the fact that a human's weight has to balance differently than it does with Cybertronians.

She parks outside of a ripped apart department store and shoulders her bag, heading inside the dank old building. It's been a long time since she's shopped for herself and she takes a long while picking out clothes and stripping to try them on, fiercely ignoring the silver glint of her lower half. She had been lucky to survive the attack, with her legs being torn from her body and most of her insides too close to being outside for her liking, but Wheeljack had been fast. She hadn't even felt the cauterization.

She picks out some more jeans and moldy silk shirts, browsing through the baby department for something nice for Annabelle. Every night she can hear the baby crying, but it doesn't bother as it might have, once upon a time.

Something in the murky distance crashes to the floor and she finds herself aiming her pistol into the dark. If anything is alive in the building, she's pretty sure her gun will do nothing to protect her, but it's a safety blanket.

Nothing else stirs and so she cautiously lowers her weapon, moving forward in unbuttoned, unzipped jean shorts, keeping her eyes focused in the dark, allowing them to grow accustomed.

Nothing.

There's nothing in the back other than cracked and broken kitchenware and a door half-off its hinges, opening inwards into a dark room that glows with blue, flickering lights.

Her gun rises again – this time, she's going to be prepared, not like last time – and she slinks towards the door, keeping her eyes sharp and her wits sharper, and pushes the door in even more with one long leg.

The room turns out to be nothing but an old, decrepit security closet. The security cameras are on, monitoring various nation-wide spots: Hoover Dam. Dodger Stadium. The White House. She reaches over and feels the computer – hot. The keyboard isn't even dusty.

_So, _she thinks, _somebody's playing mall guard._

"Hey!" she shouts, feeling her voice ring through the room and touch every wall, "Hey! Don't _hide_! I'm not one of _them!_"

Nothing.

She sighs and looks over the feeds. Something pulls at her heart and it's all she can do to not let out a sob. _...This is what we look like now._

Wastelands, flooded streets, polluted rivers...

_There's nothing left._

Her stomach – well, the thing that could very well be her stomach – drops into her gut and she pulls back, backing out of the room slowly with her gun lowered. "I'm not one of them," she repeats at a normal tone, eyes fixed on the video feeds. "I'm just here to help."

"Can't help," a muffled voice growls over the intercom, making her jump and aim her gun at the closest speaker. "Can't help. You're with _them._"

"I'm – no I'm not! I'm part of the Autobot resistance, not the Decepticons!"

"One of them, no matter the title."

She winces at this – she's met a few people so viciously against the Decepticons that they had projected their fears onto the Autobots, and those never end well... – and looks around. "The Autobots want to help."

"They didn't."

"...Where are you? I'll come to you. Look, I'll even come unarmed, if you-"

"There's nothing to do. Everyone's gone. It was a suicide mission, shouldn't have sent him."

"...Sent who, where?"

"...Shouldn't have sent him. Should've gone myself. He doesn't know what he's doing."

Mikaela shifts again and looks around – there has to be a place where the speakers originate, where the voice comes from, where there's a mic-

_**Bang.**_

Mikaela shrieks and fires her gun twice at the room she had just left, shooting Dodger Stadium and the Decepticon castle, causing sparks to fly. _Oh God, _she thinks, _He was __**right there...**_ She darts back to the room, running because oh God, she should have seen that –

She knows him.

Standing there, dropping her gun and covering her mouth with her hands because she can't deal with _human... _ Not really – she knows she knows him and _oh God._

Glen Whitmann, for his part, just sits, part of him sprawled in the computer chair, the rest dripping steadily off the computer monitor.

* * *

Ironhide sits and feels like he's rusting.

He hates being inactive, but Ratchet had ordered him to sit the recon mission out – mostly due to the blown tire he hadn't noticed for two weeks – and it's pissing him off. Sarah sits with him, rocking Annabelle softly and singing little songs to her to pass the time.

"You could have gone," the Autobot says finally, shifting against the ground and looking at the humans wandering about. "You be doing something right now."

"I wouldn't go without you and you know it."

Ironhide sighs and wonders when they got so attached to each other. Annabelle giggles and grabs Ironhide's finger – lying so close to his two girls – and says, "Ironhide," in a happy, easy child's voice. He says nothing back.

Two of the boys from a recent rescue mission wander over, kicking a half-deflated soccer ball back and forth between them. They say hello as though greeting neighbors, and wander off again once they run out of things to compliment about Annabelle.

"They'll never be the same," Sarah mumbles, holding Annabelle close.

"Nobody's going to be the same," Ironhide responds lowly. "Nobody's allowed to be. This is what the Decepticons prefer."

Sarah is quiet for a long time after that, and Ironhide imagines he could feel the rust, if only he had his sensors turned on.

After a time, Wheeljack wanders in and comes up to them, exchanging a few pleasantries. His red chassis is scratched and singed from explosions and battles, but he keeps cheerful anyways. "I figured out why Sam's foot kept acting up," he says easily, smiling at them. "Turns out I mixed up a few wires. I made a new one – it's bronze this time, looks closer to his skin color, you know? – and... Well, yes, that's mostly it."

"Wonderful, Wheeljack!" Sarah exclaims, a smile plastered on her face that doesn't reach her eyes.

Ironhide just nods.

"You know, you keep your face like that and it's going to stick."

"That's if it hasn't already!"

Ironhide directs a half-hearted glare at the two twin annoyances, looking between red and yellow and trying to decide who deserves more scorn.

"Oh, don't be like that, 'Hide," Sunstreaker and Sideswipe chorus, sharing the same maddening grin.

Ironhide wonders when the two will get slagged, and immediately regrets thinking it. He sends prayers out quickly over dead comm lines, begging for no one to have heard his thoughts, begging for them to not listen and to not take any more –

An engine roars from the lift and Mikaela comes rumbling in on the old Yamaha, barely keeping straight and being tailed carefully by Sam and Bumblebee.

Sarah picks up Annabelle and moves quickly towards her as she practically falls off the bike, shaking and shuddering. "Mikaela!" she exclaims, "What's the matter?"

"I...I... he..."

"There was an accident," Sam says slowly, sliding out of Bumblebee and letting his friend transform. "We found Glen Whitman... but he..."

"He – he..."

Wheeljack comes forward and kneels in front of the two women, holding out a hand and curling it gently around Mikaela when she moves forward. "What happened, Mikaela?" he asks, voice low and calm and Ironhide hasn't heard him use that voice since –

"...He... he shot himself."

The room goes quiet for the briefest moment, and then Bumblebee says, "He told her something."

"...He said... he said he sent someone on a suicide mission. I- I don't know what he meant."

Wheeljack slowly picks the human up and kind of cradles her against his chest – she grabs on and holds tight, face red and eyes watery like a human with allergies. "Come on," the scientist mutters, "Let me show you the new foot."

She nods against his chestplate and they walk off, leaving the others to their own devices.

--"Looks like he's got a thing for a human,"-- Sideswipe mumbles to his brother.

--"Shut up,"-- Ironhide growls in response, pinning the two of them with a glare, --"She doesn't do well with the death of humans. Wheeljack is comfortable around her. Are you truly going to attempt to sully that friendship with speculation?"--

Sideswipe falls silent and pulls back, transforming and taking off at top speed. Sunstreaker glances at Ironhide and then follows suite, racing after his brother.

"They're going to get slagged one of these days," Bumblebee sighs.

Ironhide watches Bumblebee, but the other doesn't think twice about his quiet proclamation – he just knows it's going to happen, accepts it, and doesn't fight it. Ironhide wishes the younger mech would be himself again, but he's sure that part's died completely by now. _And I had hoped this place would help him heal..._

Sam puts a hand on Bumblebee's leg and the other lifts him up, putting him on his shoulder and starting for their room. Ironhide doesn't bother watching them go – he knows by now what to expect from the two scouts.

Sarah is looking up at him and so he sighs, shaking his head a little. He moves to stand, watching Sarah step back for him – and then he hears the sirens.

Ratchet barrels through the bay, sirens wailing to warn the humans around to get out of his way, the organics leaping left and right to avoid him.

:Ratchet! What's going _on_?:

The medic barely even slows at the comm, snarling back to Ironhide, :Planetfall – Tracks – _Soundwave-!_:

"Sarah, stay _here!_" Ironhide snaps, rising to his feet and transforming mid-step, falling to battered hydraulics and taking off after the medic. He can hear the twin engines of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe roaring behind him, and doesn't waste time in directing them – they know just where to go.

:Bumblebee and Wheeljack-?:

:Sitting out –:

Their four engines fill the entire bay as they race towards the rarely-used tunnel-exit, the only exit they have for more than one mech at a time. The tunnel is huge, big enough for Optimus Prime to easily navigate, even if he wasn't even around when they made it –

When they hit open ground, Ratchet's sirens stop and a strange silence settles over them all. It's odd, Ironhide thinks, that even the mention of Tracks – of _Soundwave_ – can drive the twins to silence.

:Is he engaging the enemy?: the older mech finds himself asking Ratchet, hoping for a negative but _knowing _–

Ratchet is silent and then responds grimly, :He was when he commed me, but - ...There's nothing now.:

Ironhide growls quietly to hide the rising fear in his processors; if Soundwave has gotten close enough to cut communications –

They almost skim the ground, tread barely able to hold them down at the speeds they're going, racing along in tight formation, sensors half on each other and half on the land around – Ironhide imagines Tracks is nearby, but if he can't comm them, how could they ever...

There's a loud, keening wail from three miles northeast, and a full-body shudder runs through Ironhide's chassis. They adjust for the sound, so loud that they don't need a commline to hear it; Sunstreaker is taking the lead now, his brother swearing over open lines –

And then, laughter.

It floods the last public channel the Autobots have for communication, cold and high and cracking with malice.

They come up on Tracks within moments of the laugh, Soundwave already airborne and heading east, back towards the head Decepticon base. Sunstreaker transforms, running forward to fire off three badly-aimed shots, shrieking, :_COME BACK, YOU __COWARD!_:

:Soundwave: not to engage: the Decepticon replies in a darkly amused tone. :Autobot Tracks: easy target. _Beautiful _screams.:

Tracks gurgles wetly from his position, splayed out across the ground – a twisted mass of Cybertronian metal and energon. He makes small, quiet noises, his body shuddering as it tries to fix things that are too far gone to repair.

:P-P...Primus... H-h-h...H-help...!:

Tracks' voice is contorted in agony, echoing through the commlines at barely even a whisper. Sunstreaker moves to him and then drops to his knees, moaning quietly. :Its okay, : he rasps, :Its okay, its okay...:

Ratchet is by Tracks' side instantaneously, already working to repair vital systems shredded and laid bare by Soundwave.

:N...No... I-I...:

"Stay quiet," Ratchet rasps, "Stay _quiet._"

Tracks moans and his head lolls back – and Ironhide finds himself repulsed, unable to even look.

:M-My... m-my f-face...:

Sunstreaker pets the cheek still attached to the other's face, crooning softly – Ironhide's never seen him be so nice to Tracks, but he feels sick for thinking that the other would still be apathetic to him in this condition.

Ratchet stays quiet, ignoring Sunstreaker – ignoring them all, face hard, masked, and _angry._

:...R-...Ratch...:

"Stay _qu-_ ...Primus..." Ratchet stares at the other before switching to comms. :Stay quiet, Tracks.:

After a long moment, he tells the three around him, "His audios have been removed."

Sunstreaker doesn't move from his position and Ironhide doesn't even know if the other heard the medic, but he wouldn't be surprised-

:Its okay, : he continues to rasp through the comm, :Its okay, we're going to fix things.:

:...c-c...can't...can't f-f-feel...:

Tracks moans aloud, crying out as Ratchet reaches into his open chassis, bare optic shuttering and rolling sickly in exposed wirings, barely even able to stay connected.

Ironhide turns his own optics to the sky and estimates how far away Soundwave is.

"...Ironhide," Ratchet calls quietly, looking up at the other and drawing the elder's attention to him. "...I don't know if we can _save _him."

Sunstreaker's hand stills against the other's face for a moment before continuing to smooth down flaking metal scrap, optics dimming.

"I can... I can keep him functioning – but... Soundwave's decimated most of his internal systems. I don't have spare audios. I don't have the _resources _to help him back to fighting capacity, not for a few meta-cycles." He adds with a bitter laugh, "I can't replace what Soundwave took of his face. He won't like that."

"...He'll be unable to fight?" Ironhide asks slowly.

Sideswipe looks at Ironhide in unhidden confusion and worry, optics refusing to leave the other even after receiving a glare in response.

"Not for years," Ratchet responds quietly.

Ironhide is silent.

:P-Pl... I c-can't...:

"...Maybe it'd be best to let him go."

"_No!_" Sunstreaker exclaims, turning his optics to Ironhide with unbridled rage. "He can't fight but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to-"

"He'll be a strain on resources."

"He's an Autobot!"

"He'll need to be taken care of."

"There aren't enough of us _left, _Ironhide!"

Ironhide falls silent and looks at Sunstreaker for a long moment, crossing his arms to hide his own anxiety. "Sunstreaker, this is Tracks. Do you believe he'll want to live like this?"

Sunstreaker doesn't get a chance to answer – without warning, Tracks' already twisted form convulses, arching up off the ground as vital systems begin to shut down and power tries to reroute itself through broken wires, sending energy crackling through the air and over his chassis.

Ironhide nods. "Do it, Ratchet."

There's a sudden flurry of movement and Sunstreaker has his gun aimed at Ironhide, optics narrowed and face contorted in rage. Sideswipe follows his brother in perfect form, aiming instead at Ratchet, optics calculating every last bit of information.

Ironhide growls and his own guns begin to charge, coming to the forefront. "I'm _warning _you, sparkling..."

Tracks shrieks and twists against the ground, grabbing at Ratchet's arm. :_P-Please-!_ D-d-d-don't – don't – d-d-d-d-:

Ironhide turns his optics to the mech lying on the ground, trying to not panic, trying to stay in control because now he's wondering what Optimus would do, even if the answer is obvious and it wouldn't matter to him if Tracks couldn't fight, he wants to live and –

Ratchet glares at the three of them briefly and is already rerouting power back to systems that can handle it. "All of you, stand _down!_" he snarls, "None of you are helping!"

Ironhide falls back and the twins drop their aim, turning to Tracks and holding him still for Ratchet.

Tracks finally stabilizes almost a cycle later, Ratchet looking worn and more tired than Ironhide's seen him in vorns. "I'm going to need help transporting him back to base," he says quietly, "Ironhide, you have the bed. Let me use it."

He transforms without a word, ignoring the vicious glare from Sunstreaker, idling so that Ratchet can carefully lift the other up for transportation. Tracks moans softly, hand gripping at armor loosely, and when he's settled in Ironhide's bed, his hands lightly grasp at his sides.

:...h-hide...:

:We've got you, : the older mech quietly responds into a private line. :We've got you.:

They drive back to the base in silence, and Ironhide tries to decide when he stopped believing in second chances.


	3. Conscience Wakes Despair

Author's Note: Forgive me for the delay - RP-related business has utterly sucked me up. I promise to try and be more punctual.

* * *

Cities of the Future  
Chapter III

_"Hope arouses, as nothing else can arouse, a passion for the possible."_  
-William Sloan Coffin

* * *

Bonecrusher can appreciate the sound of twisting metal far more than most Decepticons. Unlike the others, he has a _passion _for turning smooth plating to scrap, for drawing optics from their sockets and crushing them – nothing excites him more. 

Tonight, however, the quiet shrieks from Optimus Prime do nothing for him, bringing him no pleasure – not even righteous anger. It's simply an irritating task, ripping the last bits of plate from the Prime's body, revealing his protoform.

He wants to get _something_ out of this! He hates that the only thing he's gained from sinking his claws into the Prime is more frustration and annoyance, instead of the pleasure he normally receives. The other has even stopped screaming now, body twitching under his hands but doing nothing else.

It's not until he hears the doors open with a soft beep that he realizes how far he's gone, drawing back and shaking his hand free of energon. The Prime's exhausts wheeze as the one remaining optic flickers up in relief – even the briefest reprieve from Bonecrusher is heaven to this pathetic mess.

"_Bonecrusher!_"

The Decepticon turns to stare Starscream down as the second-in-command storms forward, shrieking Cybertronian curses and looking for the other's head on a stick.

"I know what you are planning."

That is enough to stop the other in his tracks, optics widening briefly before narrowing into slits, body tensing.

"You know _nothing._"

"I know what you are planning, Starscream," Bonecrusher repeats, kicking the Prime when he makes a soft, pleading noise. "I heard a fair deal of it over the video feed. Luckily for you, Soundwave is not here yet to take your job as communications officer."

The sound of weapons systems coming online is the only warning the brawler has before he has a plasma rifle pointed at him, Starscream's optics glowing with malice the other hadn't quite expected.

"I'm not going to inform Megatron, you imbecile," he drawls, crossing his arms and shifting into a more relaxed, non-threatening posture. "If anything, I'd offer to help you, if I didn't think you had it all planned out."

Starscream doesn't relax in the slightest, and the Prime makes another noise.

"I want to ask you for a favor."

"A favor?" Starscream repeats shrilly, quivering under the word, "A _favor_?"

"Yes." A beat. "I want to take the organic away before it goes into action."

The Prime makes a quiet noise and Starscream's optics dart between them, lingering too long on the fallen Autobot for Bonecrusher's liking, but he doesn't care at this point.

"She's not my concern," Starscream says finally. "If you aren't intending to stop _me_, I will make no effort to stop _you_."

Bonecrusher nods, kicking the Prime once more – he feels nothing. "I will need a warning."

The second-in-command lowers his weapon, sneering at the other. "You will get your warning. I hardly expected _you, _of all Decepticons, to form an attachment to an organic."

Bonecrusher growls lowly, fisting one hand for a moment before relaxing. "A pet is something I could do with." He casts just a brief glance at the Prime, adding, "You seem to know what it's like." He then pushes past the silent commander, smirking only when he hears the other mutter a thousand curses in Cybertronian.

He still feels nothing, and decides that perhaps he should go investigate Soundwave's newest duties, to see if they might interfere –

"Since you adore your _pet _so very much, Bonecrusher," Starscream snaps, freezing the other in his movements, "Perhaps you should take it for some _treats._ She's running out of food."

"...Very well."

Bonecrusher leaves the pit, snarling to himself and feeling no better than when he first arrived.

* * *

Maggie lies out on the berth, stretched out like a cat and feeling strangely calm. For the first time in almost two years, she feels content with her position in life. She's alone, allowed to think, to dream – and if she thought much about her dreams, she would find them so strange. Instead of wishing for the old days, imagining hazy memories, she wonders about the future. Nothing finite – just vague thoughts of what might happen. Perhaps they'll let her go. Maybe the Autobots will triumph. She might even die. 

She doesn't realize, really, that none of those ideas particularly appeal to her.

The door slides open and she looks over her shoulder to see who her visitor is – Bonecrusher. That's far less surprising now than two weeks ago.

"Does the organic feel up for an excursion?"

Maggie finds herself acting coy, rolling over languidly and saying in a lofty tone, "The organic isn't doing anything of importance."

Bonecrusher makes a strange noise, then nods once, briefly. "Very well."

She lets him pick her up, holding lightly onto a claw. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"A nearby organic shopping facility. Starscream requested that you be fed and I know nothing of what you eat." A glance. "You will be informing me."

Maggie nods and relaxes in his grip completely. She finds herself wondering when she came to trust the Decepticons with her life – then shoves the thought away, viciously. It's better, in the long run, not to question fate.

* * *

The shopping center is a ruined relic of the past, built of crumbling walls and overgrown sidewalks. There's hardly anything left, aside from the outermost walls of the buildings, but the shops are still stocked from the last time humans inhabited the place, still available to anyone willing to risk the chance of being seen so close to the Decepticon base. 

Bonecrusher is surprisingly lenient towards Maggie; he places her at the front of a crumbling Target before stepping over a wall to crouch inside – but otherwise, it's as though he doesn't exist. He lets her wander the aisles at her own pace, infinitely patient with her.

Maggie takes a rusting shopping cart with her, filling it with anything she feels like having, and Bonecrusher does nothing to stop her. She picks up molding, two year old best sellers, blankets still vacuum sealed, pillows – she briefly contemplates games to put on Laptop but decides against them in the end, imagining the idea to be a bit demeaning. She shops for clothing that is dusty and slightly rank with the smell of mildew, picking out items that are still wearable and to her tastes. She even takes care not to take any electronics, knowing that Lord Megatron would no doubt find them offensive.

She pushes the rusty cart down the wall decorations aisle, looking at moldy and crumbling paper when she's caught off guard by a terrible image, a shriek pulling itself from her throat as she leaps away from a –

A...

The mirror is in one piece, dusty and spotted but whole, and her reflection stares her in the face, as terrified of her as she is of it.

Her hair is ratty and matted, dreading together in many spots. Her lips are shredded beyond what she had thought, white scar tissue on pink. Her teeth are yellowed and blackened, gums blood red –

"Oh _God-_!"

The bags under her eyes are pitch, and her eyes themselves bloodshot from sleepless nights. There's something... _wrong_ in her eyes – she doesn't yet see it, not clearly, but the mirror has reflected into her something she could never have wanted.

She steps away and into another mirror, knocking it loose and sending it crashing to the floor, splintering into dozens of pieces that reflect her new state a million times over, each more horrible than the last –

"Organic."

Maggie looks to Bonecrusher with wide eyes – he stares back without emotion.

"We will leave soon."

He doesn't ask why she looks terrified or why she screamed and she finds herself staring her reflection down, willing it to go away.

When it doesn't, she throws herself at the mirror with a shout, hurling the glass to the floor and stomping on the pieces barefoot.

Maggie spends the next ten minutes staring at the broken pieces – and then she becomes fully animated, leaping to her feet. She goes and piles unspoiled foods into the basket, as well as toothpaste, hair supplies, and a pair of scissors.

Her reflection haunts her every time she blinks and she finds her own bloodshot eyes staring her down at every turn, filling her with a strange sort of agony. She tries to remember how she looked before this, but her reflection faces her memories, destroying them and corrupting the files.

That was soft, sweet, innocent Maggie, the reflection hisses, and this is the new Maggie. The _Decepticon _Maggie.

Bonecrusher doesn't question her as she pushes the cart before him, and she doesn't wince when he picks her and her goods up, gazing at the shopping center blankly as they move out of Target.

Her eyes light on a decimated Petsmart, and she has a sudden epiphany –

She has become nothing more than a loyal pet of the Decepticon army.

The realization draws a smile to her face, and she curls into Bonecrusher's grip as they start for the base.

* * *

Ironhide finds himself going to the medbay, even as his processors list all the reasons why he shouldn't - why they wouldn't let him in, why they would keep him away, why the twins would sooner blow his head off than let him near the very mech he had commanded they _kill_- 

And yet, when he reaches the medbay, Ratchet greets him with a wan, tired smile - not even a smile so much as a twitch in his facial plates. He looks tired - more tired than Ironhide has seen him in vorns, and it presses upon him the seriousness of their entire situation more than the recent Decepticon activity has.

"How is...?"

Ratchet regards him steadily for a moment and then responds, "He is no better than when I brought him in. He's stabilized, but..." He trails off and waves his hand for Ironhide to enter.

The medic has set up a curtain of sorts around the berth farthest from the entrance - no doubt a small benefit for both visitors and the patient behind it. Ironhide feels a tinge of something he can't describe, the word deleted from his vocabulary a millennia ago. He begins to approach the berth when Ratchet speaks up again.

"...He will not recover, Ironhide. Not fully."

"Never fully."

Ratchet sighs. "His audios will be difficult to replace. And I simply do not have the resources for his faceplate-"

"May I?"

Ironhide's hand is already on the curtain's edge, ready to pull it back but waiting only on the medic's reply. He's done a lot of damage to his reputation and he doubts that he'll be given visitation rights, but -

"...You may."

With one backward glance at Ratchet to gauge his expression - one of quiet remorse and lingering doubt - Ironhide pulls the curtain aside and steps behind it.

Tracks is lying on his back upon the berth, chassis still open, internals bared to the open air. He is a wreck. Energon is dripping from still healing wounds and it's been a while - too long for this to be normal, too long for this to be _safe._ And yet, even with the amount of pain he's no doubt in, there's the slow hum of basic processors and functions online.

::Tracks.::

The Autobot's optics, one lying bare in its socket, roll to look around, catching on Ironhide after a long moment of delirious searching.

::...Ironhide...::

His voice drags, catching even on the communication line, and the elder has to look away for a moment, forgetting briefly Tracks' vain sense of self and how offensive - or how disastrously depressing - that movement must be.

::...Not...the most, th-the best you've s-seen me.::

::Could be worse.::

::...Could be dead.::

Ironhide looks sharply at Tracks, whose vocalizer lets out a skipping, broken laugh. ::I know. S-Sunst-streaker told me.::

::I didn't-::

::It's all right, I-Ironhide,:: Tracks says, smiling wrongly and exhausted beyond caring or even fear. Death isn't an obstacle for this mech any longer.

::You have to understand, Tracks - we don't-::

::-Have th-the resources. I unders-stand.::

::You won't-::

::-Be th-the same.::

::I didn't-::

::Ironh-hide, _s-stop._:: Tracks' optics roll away from Ironhide and stare at the far wall. ::I know... I u-understand what is c-coming for me.::

Ironhide takes a step forward and puts his hand on the edge of the berth, drawing Tracks' optics back to him. ::...I wish I could - if I had only been faster - if only I had-::

::-If only,:: Tracks rasps. ::T-There is nothing you c-could have done. I didn't p-pay enough attention. S-Soundwave had th-the advantage.::

Ironhide doesn't know why Tracks' words don't help his conscience. They do nothing but enflame his feelings of_helplessness,_ his thoughts of how he could have prevented this increasing exponentially as his processors try to work out different scenarios that will never happen, where he could _help _Tracks, and not just stand idly by.

::...F-forgive me, Ironhide, but I c-cannot help you.::

There's more to that statement than could ever be fully appreciated and Ironhide lowers his optics to Tracks' hand. He hadn't noticed it before, but the other's fingers have been bent backwards, making it impossible for the other to hold or fire a weapon. _That __**coward.**_

::Why _now?_:: Ironhide finally asks::Why did Soundwave choose_now _to-::

::He-:: Tracks pauses, looking distant and just as lost as Ironhide, but for an entirely different reason. ::-A... s-security breach. He... w-was called by Meg...:: His intakes flair as he gasps for oxygen, looking beyond exhausted. ::...Megat-tron. T-to invest... investig-gate... it...::

::Tracks,:: Ironhide cuts in, putting a hand gently to the other's shoulder::You need to rest.::

::...Th-that's all the i-i-information... that I... I c-could get...::

::That's enough for us, Tracks. You need to rest now. You're with us; you're safe.:: He does not attempt to hide the gratitude in his tone, squeezing Tracks' shoulder gently. ::We're here.::

::...I...::

Tracks vocalizer seizes slightly and he makes a low noise, before tilting his head very slightly in acknowledgement. ::Thank you...::

Ironhide nods once and then turns, keeping his pace steady as he leaves the medbay - even as his internals rage against his better judgment and beg that they cut their losses while they can. He has his information - now he must inform Jazz, who is once again their acting commander now that...

"No one's told me a slaggin' thing!"

Ironhide tenses as he approaches the war room, Jazz's voice echoing like a condemnation into the hall.

"We haven't had _time-_" Sunstreaker begins, only to be cut off with a loud shout from their acting commander.

"-To _what,_ follow protocol? File a report? Think of a way to _tell me?_"

"Jazz..."

"Sunstreaker, stop," Ironhide growls as he enters, scowling at the sports car even as he approaches Jazz. "We didn't have the time to file a report for someone we believed would never recover. It was my decision as acting commander at the time."

"You didn't even think how y'could tell me?" Jazz replies, looking almost weakened by the statement. "Even when y'knew I was gonna get better?"

"Never knew, Jazz. Just hoped. I was there, if you'd like a report now."

Ironhide regards Jazz with wary respect, waiting for a response. After a moment, the car nods, looking almost as worn as Ratchet. It's only now that Ironhide realizes they are not completely alone - Sideswipe is standing beside his brother, while Wheeljack stays near the back, no doubt recording this for Ratchet. None of them had been there, and he had given them all only the barest recollection of the night.

"...Optimus and I were returning from a recon mission near the Decepticon base when we were apprehended by Megatron. He pursued and we did our best to fight him off, but we weren't a match. Optimus ordered me back when I was wounded, but even when I defied the orders it did nothing. Megatron crippled me and offlined Optimus before taking him back to the Decepticon base."

"...And..."

Ironhide filters air through his intakes, offlines his optics briefly, and then says with the utmost finality:

"Optimus Prime is dead."

* * *

Starscream can't remember the reason behind any of this at the moment. All he knows is that he feels strangely warm, as though he's nearing entrance to Earth's atmosphere - a feeling that he hasn't experienced in his spark for vorns. 

And yet, here he is - the cold pit's darkness enveloping him and the one in his company, artificially darkened to the point where the video would not capture them on tape, talons curled into broken plating as one blue optic stares down into his own red ones.

"...Are you certain?"

The Prime's voice is hoarse, but it holds the strong reserve that the Autobot leader has been known for - that promise that it's all up to you, and he'll understand if you don't want to...

"...I am."

The Prime lies back against scattered remains of his brethren, beyond the point of caring for the sparks that have been extinguished in this pit, perhaps even by the one his broken arms are hooked around. They've rejoined the Allspark, the Prime has told Starscream time and time again, and their physical bodies are only faint memories in old processors. The warmth that the Seeker is feeling now had been in that voice then - is still in that voice, even now - and his talons curl at the memory, accidentally pulling up the armor's mooring. The Prime hisses but doesn't reprimand him and Starscream feels some shadow of an emotion he's not felt for the longest time.

"Will they come?"

The Prime nods once, optic dimming slightly at the motion, processors hardly able to stand it. "They will, if I call for them."

_It's now or never,_ he thinks, shifting a hand to stroke the spark casing laid bare by Bonecrusher's earlier time with the Autobot. The Prime's exhausts exhale and his optic blackens for a long moment, before flickering back on with an intensity Starscream hadn't expected.

"Then do so," the Seeker finally rasps, reaching up to his neck and extracting a manual input cable. It's rare for any Decepticon to open himself in this way and no one will expect it, at all - it'll look as though it came from him and the Autobots will...

"...If you are sure."

Starscream responds by plugging the input cable into an open port in the Prime's neck, hissing as an unmonitored stream of raw data washes over him. The pain is overwhelming at first, but the Prime slowly filters the connection and everything fades away, leaving Starscream to stare at the calm Autobot commander in...

"_This is Optimus Prime._"

The Prime's voice echoes through the Decepticon's processors and along with it, just for him, comes a gamut of emotions, filling him with desperation, sincerity, and the feeling of _truth,_ something so utterly foreign that he cringes away from it for a moment, before hesitatingly embracing it.

"_This is Optimus Prime._"

The line repeats, and the Prime locks his gaze with Starscream's, speaking to him as much as the far away Autobots who think he is dead-

"_This is Optimus Prime, and I am alive._"

Starscream waits a beat - then another - and then there's the faint echo of a response, dimmed to near inaudibility by the rush of _relief_and _gratitude_ sweeping over him from the Prime.

"_Optim---ut you---- ple---kkhzzzt---_"

The Prime laughs quietly, sounding so fully restored that it doesn't even matter that his armor is coming off, that he's in the thick of Decepticon territory, that he's beneath the Second in Command of the Decepticon army, that they're both traitors to their causes in more ways than one -

"_I hear you, and I am alive._"


End file.
